


Grief, but not for the Man in the Casket

by Tasceri



Series: Vomikuverse [1]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Funeral, Gen, Xehanort is dead, it's sad, mentions of child abuse, vomikuverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tasceri/pseuds/Tasceri
Summary: You don't mourn the man who treated you like less than an animal. You mourn the severance of the final tenuous tie to your long lost brother. (From NebulaBetta's and my Vomikuverse)





	Grief, but not for the Man in the Casket

You're numb at the funeral, although you've been numb for a long time already. The words rustle past your ears in the too still church while the starch in your shirt prickles and scratches your skin. Outside the rain has passed, but the ground is wet under your feet. The flowers on the coffin bleed their colour across your vision. When Xehanort Jr puts his hand on your shoulder you jolt automatically. He says something comforting, his smooth voice sounding insincere even now. You forget the words as they leave his liar's mouth. You follow him to the car, to the reception, to the congregation in black and the quiet murmur of platitudes. People approach you, spill their condolences onto you. When you purse your lips and avert your eyes they mistake you for holding back tears. Xehanort Jr rubs your back and tells you you can wait in the car if you need privacy, but you stay. You stay because that stubborn speck of hope left inside you thinks that maybe  _ he'll  _ be here. Xehanort's death made the news. It could have reached him. Maybe he'd sacrifice one day of his new life to see you one last time, before Xehanort Jr sells the house and breaks the last tether between you.

You know he wouldn't. Just like you knew he'd never come home. You stare at the shiny shoes on the hotel carpet, shuffling and scuffing a choreographed farce. You imagine pulling the tablecloth out from under the buffet, spilling food like guts and wine like blood. You imagine taking a knife and opening yourself to these spectators. You imagine the empty room at your funeral.

Your mother is across the foyer, talking to some people you don't recognise. You wonder if she's avoiding you. You haven't seen her since he disappeared, when she came and cried so many crocodile tears as if she had ever cared enough to love him before he left. You watch her slim figure as she dips between circles of people. They surround her, comfort her. You catch a glimpse of her face, streaks of tears adding years to her usually glamorous appearance. You think she's avoiding you, but her eyes catch you staring, and then you are embracing awkwardly like two people who have never met.

"Vanitas," she says, holding your shoulders at arm's length to inspect you, "You've grown."

She always says that, even though you haven't grown an inch in any direction since you were thirteen. She strokes your hair, cups your face in her palm. Her nails close cropped now. Jewellery silver, understated. Eyes still yellow, the yellow of the whole evil family.

She says, "This must be such a blow. I don't know how you aren't crying." She pulls a forced smile, her voice almost breaking as she continues, "But you always were one tough cookie."

Wrong again. You cried when he left. Cried for weeks, cried like the baby he took with him, sobs so violent you thought your body would fall apart. The grief like paralysis. You're only alive now because you've been dead ever since.

She says, "I'll see you later. We'll talk about where you'll live now." She's lying.

You aren't afraid of what will happen to you now that Xehanort is dead. You don't care. She hugs you again and returns to the crowd; you find Xehanort Jr and tell him you need to grieve alone. A whole family of liars. He gives you his car keys.

At first you sit in the driver's seat, hands on the steering wheel and toes just touching the pedals, imagining accelerating the sleek machine around you into the hotel wall, imagining the force of impact knocking the wind out of you, imagining the crumple of metal and crumple of your ribs, imagining shards of glass slashing your skin. But you don't even know which pedal is which, let alone the gear shifts. You squeeze between the seats to the back and huddle against the unwelcoming leather interior, listening to the faint patter of drizzle starting up outside.

Xehanort Jr drives home with a few of his father's old friends. If Xehanort ever had friends as much as tools. You slink through the shadows to the guest bedroom, where you lay on the too-large bed listening hard for the murmur of voices downstairs.

You have always hated Xehanort Jr. Hated him for being Xehanort's true son, for being favoured, for escaping Xehanort's prison with only his name, his eyes and now his inheritance. No doubt he has always hated you. Evil little boy.

Everyone in this goddamn fucking family hates each other.

Even _he_ hated you so much he left you to rot here.

You hear footsteps, rising. Tension draws your muscles tight. A flipped switch, and the door is backlit from the hall. You hold your breath, praying that the person outside will move past, but instead a sharp knock jolts you into panic. You scramble, smack the light on, gulp lungfuls of air, wrench the door open.

Xehanort always hated to be kept waiting, on the rare occasions that he deigned to knock. But Xehanort is dead, the man behind the door someone you half-know from the few social events you were permitted to attend. He has a trickster's face, hair black like yours but slick against his head.

Braig says, ruffling your hair, "Hey, kiddo." He lets himself into the room, leans against the wall. "Lemme cut straight to the chase. I know you're not keen on staying here." An understatement, but you appreciate not having to run through the exhausting platitudes of consolation. "I owed your old man a favour, so here's the deal. I know you're good at cooking, and it just happens that a friend of mine needs a new employee in his kitchen. He'll give you the job, no questions asked-" He knows you haven't been to school for years, then, and he's smart enough to realise that when Xehanort said "home-schooled" he meant "free housekeeper". "-But after that it's your prerogative not to fuck up." Braig's eyes roam the room, as if searching for something, but there isn't so much as a pair of dirty pants on the floor to suggest that you've been living here since Xehanort died. "You can stay with me til you've got enough to move out."

Xehanort left you a little money in his will, but you know even that was just for the sake of appearances. Not enough to live on. Apparently your mother was furious. Maybe she'd have adopted you if it meant getting hold of a portion of Xehanort's estate.

You swallow, throat dry. You say, "What's the catch?"

"Hey. No catch. I pay my debts."

Must have been one hell of a debt. But you don't ask any more questions. Braig picks you up in the morning. You leave without saying goodbye, your box of belongings light in your hands. You wonder how he felt when he left. You are only numb.


End file.
